


You tied my lead and pulled my chain

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Series: And now my favorite color is blue [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Derek Hale Has No Chill, M/M, Marking, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Possessive Derek, Rough Oral Sex, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Teen Derek Hale, Teen Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Teen Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25644445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: “I'm not dating Derek Hale!” Stiles says shrilly. It doesn't sound all that convincing, even to himself. There was something to be said, after all, about protesting too much.“He visits you at school literally every day,” Scott says.“That's called stalking,” Stiles says, crossing his arms.“Sexy stalking,” Lydia says, barely looking up from the textbook she's been reading.“He brings you food. Yesterday he carried your books.”“Because he's weird, Scott. Even for a werewolf, he's weird.”“Sexy weird,” Lydia adds, chewing daintily on the end of her pencil.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: And now my favorite color is blue [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859086
Comments: 29
Kudos: 1191





	You tied my lead and pulled my chain

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this happened, but here's your sequel, okay!  
> For Rachel, Raw, and Oni in particular. 
> 
> I guess I have a new series now. I hope you're all proud of yourselves lol

Stiles isn't quite exactly sure how this happened. To be honest, he wasn't even aware it was happening until several weeks later when he finally _did_ notice something. A distinct lack of him getting his ass kicked on a regular basis like usual. And then there was the _staring_. It's not like Stiles wasn't used to being mocked and laughed at by almost everybody in this school at some point. It didn't really bother him, mostly because if he let it, he'd have been emotionally destroyed by the end of freshman year. But it's not that kind of staring. It's some strange mix of confusion and, dare he say it, _jealousy_.

“They won't stop _looking_ at me, Scott,” Stiles says, covering his face in his hands as Scott sits next to him, devouring his lunch (and also half of Stiles's lunch) with a disgusting amount of wordless, but unfortunately not soundless, chewing.

“”scuzyourdatingderekhale,” Scott says. Or attempts to with a gross amount of food in his mouth.

“ _I'm not dating Derek Hale!_ ” Stiles says shrilly. It doesn't sound all that convincing, even to himself. There was something to be said, after all, about protesting too much.

“He visits you at school _literally_ every day,” Scott says.

“That's called stalking,” Stiles says, crossing his arms.

“ _Sexy stalking_ ,” Lydia says, barely looking up from the textbook she's been reading.

“He brings you food. Yesterday he _carried your books_.”

“Because he's weird, Scott. Even for a werewolf, he's _weird_.”

 _“Sexy weird_ ,” Lydia adds, chewing daintily on the end of her pencil.

Maybe it is dating, Stiles thinks to himself later while he's in study hall, pretending to study, but in fact agonizing over the strange state of his love life. Which, up until like three weeks ago, wasn't even a thing. He's not even sure what thing it is, because _dating_ somehow doesn't even begin to address the enigma that was Derek Hale. After _the locker room incident_ , as Scott likes to horrifyingly refer to it as, it was like some kind of switch had flipped in the guy and he was like all about Stiles, _all Stiles all the time_. Which god, how fucked up is it that Stiles is even complaining about this. About someone who looks the way Derek does, acts the way Derek does, liking him too much.

Still, it was kind of intimidating, because it's intense in a way that Stiles knows has _something_ to do with the whole werewolf thing, but it's not like Scott is any help on that front because, hello, _worst werewolf ever_. Not only that, but it was confusing because Stiles is still catching up to the fact that someone is interested him, wanted to get all up in his business, climb all aboard the Stilinski train, and maybe that was what was tripping him up so much. More than the whole werewolf thing, which he's not even sure what that says about him as a person.

“Why do you like me?” Stiles asks, though it's a bit muffled, said breathlessly into Derek's clavicle.

They're in the backseat of the jeep, which Derek only deigns to be in because the Camaro is much too small for make-out sessions. He won't even let Stiles drive because, _if I have to get in this deathtrap, it's not going to be riding shotgun,_ which _rude._

“This again?” Derek asks. Stiles can feel the laugh rumbling in his unfairly broad chest.

“It's a werewolf thing, right?” It's got to be, he thinks, though admittedly thinking is hard right now when Derek's doing that thing with his tongue against Stiles's ear. Which, who knew that would be such an erogenous zone, honestly.

“You're mine, if that's what you mean,” Derek hums, and as if he needs to punctuate the words, his teeth scrape over the bared skin of Stiles's throat peeking out from the stretched out collar of Stiles's shirt, pulled down to reveal a bony shoulder. Whatever, at least Derek didn't rip it this time. Stiles's dad is starting to ask questions about where the fuck all his clothes were going.

Stiles huffs. “See, normal people don't say that. All casual and _...and...”_

 _“And what,”_ Derek murmurs, and Stiles can only think _unfair_ when Derek thrusts upward to rock their hips together, digging his fingers into Stiles's thighs where they're straddled on either side of him.

“...shouldn't I have gotten a memo about that? Shouldn't there have been some kind of discussion about this? Because --” and fuck, he can't even get the words out straight because Derek's lips are on his and whenever that happens, Stiles might as well cease to be outside of his desperate, searching tongue tangling with Derek's far-too-clever mouth.

“I'm yours too, in case you were wondering,” Derek says.

And the thing about it is, Stiles's head is the one with all the questions. Because when Derek says shit like that, it feels right, like Stiles's stupid gut and his even stupider heart just nod in agreement. And it doesn't make sense.

“I can practically hear you thinking too hard about this,” Derek says.

“I'd worry if you couldn't.”

“If you're going to act like a brat, I can treat you like one.”

Stiles whines because it shouldn't be so hot. It's actually _annoying_ that it's so hot. “Is that your response to _everything?_ ”

“It works, doesn't it?” Derek grins that sharktoothed grin against Stiles's jaw while simultaneously palming Stiles's ridiculously hard dick. _It does_ , because it's not like he can hide how much he loves this, loves Derek touching him, kissing him, _marking him_ , in a way Stiles's human side absolutely doesn't understand but whatever primal instinct the werewolf has awakened in him sings at the contact.

“Even if I wasn't a wolf, I would want you, baby,” Derek says, no, more like _croons_ , which makes Stiles shiver in a way that's so fucking irritating and so fucking _good_ at the same time. “You should see yourself like this.”

“Like what?” Stiles gasps, though it comes out all strangled because Derek's unzipped his pants and his hand is so hot and huge holding Stiles's erection in his clenched fist. He keens brokenly against the other boy's mouth and Derek only smiles again, this time revealing those fangs that make Stiles's heart skip several beats.

“Debauched,” Derek murmurs, and when Stiles starts shamelessly thrusting up into the boy's hand, he really can't argue.

“Points for the SAT word,” Stiles says, moaning sharply when Derek nips at his neck with just the barest hint of teeth.

“I wonder what else I can get points for?” Derek quips.

“Nobody likes a smart-ass,” Stiles says, but it's not like it holds much weight when it's accompanied by another mortifying moan that he literally can't do a thing to keep from coming out of his mouth. It's not like he hasn't attempted it before, but Derek had _not_ been a fan (“ _Don't you fucking dare”)_ , and he'd kept Stiles all strung out and on edge for way too long as punishment the last time he tried.

“Why do I like you so much then?”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the exact moment Derek sucks on his pulse point in a way that he _knows_ has like a direct line to Stiles's dick.

“Are you gonna come for me?”

“You'd like that wouldn't you?” Stiles hisses.

“Very much so.” He sounds entirely too pleased with himself already. Stiles has got a sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue, but then Derek squeezes his hand in a way that makes Stiles feel like all the air gets squeezed out of his lungs along with it. It's so not fair, he thinks, whimpering in defeat as he flies apart, trembling in Derek's arms. He wonders, panting dazedly against the wolf's shoulder, if the Derek induced orgasms were always going to be as earth-shattering as they always seem to be. He might not make it to eighteen if that's the case.

…

“You're gonna kill me,” Stiles mumbles into Derek's collarbone, and his hot breath is shockingly cool compared to Derek's heated skin, but it makes Derek shiver anyway. “My dad's the sheriff, and they have laws.”

“Why don't you tell him all about it then.” Derek's going for cocky, but he's not sure he pulls it off when he can hear how rough his own voice sounds when Stiles hasn't even touched him yet. But the scent of the boy's cum is so thick in the air that Derek thinks he could choke on it. The taste is even better, he thinks with a groan, sucking it off his fingertips.

“You should not be allowed to do things like that,” Stiles grouses. “You're offensively hot. I am offended.”

“You complain an awful lot for someone who just got their rocks off,” Derek says. And he's not giving Stiles a chance to say anything else, grabbing him by his hips and pinning him with a growl. It still floors him every time, how he can't smell an ounce of fear on the boy, even though he knows his fangs are dropped and his eyes are that stark blue neon of the wolf. Stiles just bares his throat automatically, digging his fingernails into Derek's back like he's scared he might let go of him. Not a chance in hell, Derek thinks, mouthing his way down Stiles's neck, pausing occasionally to suck marks on his chest and his hipbones to match.

“You know I've had to start changing in the bathroom for gym class thanks to you,” Stiles says, “because people were starting to think I was getting the shit beaten out of me.” Derek would say he's sorry, but he's not, and Stiles doesn't sound too sorry about it either. Which doesn't do a thing to calm the wolf that's preening over those blooms of purple and red that remind him of paintings in a museum somewhere.

“I wouldn't want them looking at you anyway,” Derek grumbles, scraping the pointed tips of his teeth on the soft flesh below the boy's concave belly. He wonders briefly if someday Stiles might let him actually do it, sink his fangs into that milky white, bite him for real. It's a fleeting thought, but it's intoxicating enough to nearly wreck him. With a groan, he ruts his hips and hears Stiles's breath catch, but then Stiles's hands are in his hair, tugging on it hard enough to get his attention.

“ _I want to do it.”_

Derek groans. As much as Stiles likes to bitch and moan about Derek actively trying to kill him, there's something he knows that Stiles will never understand. How most of the time it's Derek who feels like he's gasping for breath when he's around him. Stiles can't possibly comprehend that Derek's the one wanting to drown in him – in his scent, his skin, that stupidly perfect mouth. Or how utterly and completely the wolf in him _wants_. It's never been this hard, fighting his instincts, and he wonders if it'll get easier with time, like some kind of exposure therapy where if he gets enough of the boy, he might not completely lose it. The problem was, enough didn't seem to exist where Stiles was concerned.

“Do what?” Derek mutters, nibbling at that little secret place behind Stiles's left ear he likes so much. His scent seems to settle there in a way that's somehow sweeter, more concentrated. “You'll have to be more specific.”

“ _Ass_ ,” Stiles grits. Derek lets his fangs recede enough to bite down hard with blunt teeth, which only makes the other boy whine louder and squirm harder underneath him. “Get off me so I can blow you.”

Derek curses, hissing when he digs his claws into his thighs reflexively (Stiles had practically had an aneurysm after he'd left claw marks _one_ time in his seats, so he's far more careful now). He scrambles backward with a lot less grace than he usually manages, but to be fair, he's about to get his dick sucked so sue him for being a little off his game. His eyes are closed and he keeps his hands clenched at his sides as he listens to Stiles scrambling to his knees.

“Hey, don't do shit like that to yourself,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek can already see it, that full mouth curved into a frown, though he isn't quite sure what Stiles is talking about until he feels the boy's fingertips trailing slowly up his thigh.

“I wouldn't have to do shit like that to myself if _you_ didn't say shit like that to me,” Derek says, and he's definitely not whining. Nope. Besides, better his own skin than Stiles's, and It's not like he'll leave a lasting mark. “I'll heal anyway,” he says. “It doesn't matter.”

“But it hurts you,” Stiles says quietly, and Derek can only cock his head at him, confused. “If it hurts you,” Stiles continues, and Derek watches with wide eyes as Stiles's nimble, perfect fingers undo the button of his jeans and slide the zipper down, “it matters to me, idiot.” He doesn't have to say it for Derek to hear it anyway, _stupid werewolves_.

Derek's stomach flips because _didn't they just cover this?_ He just can't _say_ stuff like that and expect Derek not to devour him. It's just not possible. He takes a breath to steady himself, lets the itch in his fingers subside before he trusts himself enough to slide a hand over Stiles's shorn hair, cupping his cheek and rubbing a thumb over each mole dotting the skin there like he's committing them to memory. “You're too sweet to me, baby.”

Stiles scent turns syrupy sweet. He's pleased, though Derek knows he'd never say it out loud. Not that he needs to, Derek thinks, rumbling contentedly when Stiles nuzzles into his thigh. He knows it's coming, but it's still a shock to his system every time when Stiles finally lays a hand on him. He's so hard, and Stiles's hand is just rough enough to make the friction all the more torturous when he works him carefully with one hand. It should be illegal to have a mouth like that, no, a face like that, Derek thinks, biting his lip to hold back the groan when Stiles gazes up at him through those long lashes. The groan turns into a snarl when Stiles grins at him, eyes bright and clear and mischievous, before licking a wet stripe up Derek's length like it's a fucking ice cream cone or something.

“Your mouth is a crime,” Derek grunts. The first few times Stiles had done this to him, the boy had been shy, clumsy with inexperience and nerves. Not that Derek minded, but Stiles had been all embarrassed about it. But of course, Stiles being Stiles, he'd taken to it with his customary enthusiasm and now Derek is the one left wondering if Stiles even _had_ a gag reflex at all. The way Stiles swallows him down is nothing short of filthy and Derek has no idea how one person could be so fucking perfect.

Stiles hums, obviously pleased, and the vibration around his cock makes Derek clench his jaw so hard he swears he hears it crack. Derek tries to be careful, not buck his hips too roughly up into Stiles's mouth. He knows how to be gentle around breakable things, sure, but he's more cautious with Stiles. Nobody's tested his control like this, not even Paige. But that's not something he wants to think about, not a road he wants to go down when Stiles is on his knees and being so goddamn good for him.

Of course, Derek is starting to figure out that Stiles doesn't have a bone of self-preservation in his entire body, so apparently he decides if Derek's not going to fuck his mouth, he'll have to do it himself. The way he bobs his head, fucking his own throat with Derek's cock, drives the wolf out of his fucking mind. He's never felt quite so crazed by lust before, hasn't felt the wolf scratching at his skin to be let out so insistently until this beautiful human boy deigned to let a beast like Derek touch him.

He feels it curling in his gut, his hips starting to stutter and falter, his balls tightening. _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ is pretty much the only cogent thought Derek can muster at the moment, the words on repeat and rendering his brain completely useless. Like Derek might as well put a _no vacancy_ sign in there, because holy fucking shit.

“Stiles,” Derek warns, shoving gently at his shoulder, “I'm gonna – you don't have to -- “

Stiles makes a noise that sounds like disapproval, and he doesn't pull off, either. Just works Derek harder with that all that gripping, wet heat until Derek knows that's it, he's a goner. He throws his head back, snarling as he comes, spilling down the boy's throat so suddenly it feels like the orgasm gets torn right out of him.

It's a long moment before Derek can even think about opening his eyes or unclenching his fists. He knows when he does, Stiles is going to see the blood on his palms from his own nails digging into them and he's going to hear about it, but that can wait. It can all wait for just a moment.

…

Stiles never thought he'd be so enamored with another person's dick before, but it's _Derek_ , so why is he even surprised? It's just as pretty as Derek himself, and the taste of him, salt and sweat and that distinctly Derek scent he can't place (must be a werewolf thing, he thinks), is perfect. The weight of him on Stiles's tongue is also perfect. And so is the way his knees feel on the ground at Derek's feet, how the rough scratch of denim from Derek's jeans scrapes across his cheek as he nuzzles into his thigh. The way Derek's eyes feel when they pin him down the same way he does with his hands, heavy and focused like he couldn't look away from Stiles if he tried.

Watching Derek come might be his new favorite pastime because it's so colossally too much that Stiles can't even think about it without nearly having a mental breakdown. It's not like he's particularly partial to swallowing, but the way it seems to absolutely wreck Derek, tear him to pieces, it's worth it. Because when Derek finally opens his eyes, Stiles gets to see the way Derek looks down at him, all blown out pupils, irises glowing cornflower blue, and it's _something_. Something that tickles that part of his brain that's all instinct, the part that whispers _right, yes, mine, his_ in a way his rational brain isn't quite ready to hear yet.

“ _Medulla_ ,” Stiles murmurs dazedly. That's the part of the brain he's thinking of, apparently, the only one that's working right now because somehow he always feels dumber after being with Derek. And he's not even the one who's just blown his load in somebody else's mouth.

“What?” Derek huffs a laugh out, a harsh breath he sounds like he's been holding in for a while.

“The primal brain,” Stiles says, using Derek's legs as leverage to pull himself up so he can climb back into the other boy's lap, groaning a bit at the effort. “That's the medulla. The one that makes you go all _Me Derek, You Stiles,_ caveman.”

“Is there a question somewhere in there, or are you just making fun of me?”

Stiles shrugs, flushing a little because it always takes a bit for his mouth and his brain to seemingly sync back up when he's all jelly-legged like this. “Wouldn't you like to know.”

“Mmhmm,” Derek agrees. Stiles doesn't offer anything else, just nuzzles farther into Derek's chest like he's trying to burrow in there. Maybe he is. It's a good place to hide. It's nice, these moments where he listens to Derek's heartbeat get slow and even. He'd never considered it much, that the rhythm of another person's heartbeat could be soothing like this. But then again, everything about Derek seemed specifically designed to be somehow exactly what he needs whenever he needs it.

It would be infuriating (no, it _is_ infuriating, most of the time), but it's also annoyingly, wonderfully, cosmically good.

“I can smell you, you know,” Derek says, his palm spreading like a hot brand up and down the knobs of Stiles's spine. “You're _happy_.”

“No'm not,” Stiles mumbles drowsily. Derek is entirely too warm and too comfortable. “Shut up.”

Just this once, Derek obeys, but not before he sucks one last mark into Stiles's throat. Just to be thorough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Join the madness at the Sterek and Co. Discord: https://discord.gg/H8gVdK


End file.
